My North, My South, My East and West
by blueink3
Summary: "Perhaps this would work out. And then they'd all come home and be one awkward, dysfunctional, complete family. While drinking cocoa or something." The Charmings, they always find each other.
1. The Fall

_The Fall_

Slowly. Calmly. Heroically.

That was how he fell.

Henry inches forward, watching the steady inhale and exhale of his grandfather's breath, suddenly quite aware that he has yet to draw his own. Spots dance in front of his eyes as he watches the drop of blood continue to seep out of the smallest of pricks on the older man's skin. He should be horrified to find a similarly shaped tear trailing down his cheek, but he can't be bothered. After all, princes don't cry – but his only remaining family member just sacrificed himself to bring back his mother and grandmother, and frankly, Henry's final tether to hoped-for dignity disappeared in the same moment that his grandfather's eyes slipped shut.

"Henry?"

His adoptive mother for once sounds hesitant. Cautious… Sympathetic.

But he can't turn around, for his grandfather is an inch away from falling off the cot onto the floor and Henry just can't let that happen. Before he even realizes what he's doing, his small arms are struggling to hoist strong legs onto the bedding without getting the gun holster caught on the blanket.

"Here, here. Let me." And then Mr. Gold is gently moving Henry out of the way and adjusting Charming on the bed. "There. Much better."

_Much better. _

The words are hollow in Henry's ears. _Much better. _As if Mr. Gold knows what Henry (or Charming, for that matter) are going through.

A warm palm comes to rest on his shoulder and he recognizes the maternal, yet hard touch of the Queen, even as the memory of his grandfather's firm, reassuring grip on his back seems to burn through his shirt and tattoo his skin.

"He's gonna wake up. He is. Snow'll do it." Henry nods as if the gesture will confirm that which the small voice in his head is reluctant to guarantee.

"Of course she will," the Queen murmurs. "She usually does." A hint of annoyance in her tone makes Henry smile.

Perhaps this will work out. Charming will tell Snow what to do. Snow will kiss him awake. Emma will help carry out the plan. And then they'll come home and be one awkward, dysfunctional, _complete_ family. While drinking cocoa or something.

But Henry knows how things work and even the treacliest of fairytales drives a hard bargain. _Magic always comes with a price. _

And he's currently watching his grandfather pay it.

Charming looks calm. Peaceful. As he had plenty of times when Henry tip-toed into the kitchen after a nightmare to find his "Gramps" passed out on the couch, ready to jump to his defense at a moment's notice.

But now it's his turn to be the watcher. The protector. And if anyone tries to touch his grandfather before his grandmother has the chance to wake him… Well.

Henry is the grandson of a prince.

And he knows how to wield a sword.


	2. The Consequence

_The Consequence_

Emma kicks a stone as she keeps one step behind Snow. These woods used to be her mother's home and as she hurriedly, yet assuredly navigates them, Emma can't help but be impressed by the power of the curse to turn her incredibly capable mother into meek and misguided Mary Margaret.

"_You told me to have faith and now I'm telling you. We will make it back."_

That was what she had said and, man, had she sounded confident.

But now, in the shadow of the forest's looming trees and under the weight of Snow's desperation, Emma's confidence is waning. Because every decision has a consequence and magic, as she's learning, always comes with a price.

And this price is the greatest of all.

This is her father. Her _father_. And after spending a lifetime looking for him only to lose him minutes after their reunion… Well. She can't, _won't, _go through that again.

"So how much farther?" she asks in an attempt at distraction. For her sake or Snow's though, she's not really sure.

"Not much."

"How long since you were last there?" She doesn't doubt her mother's sense of direction or her ability to get them there in a timely fashion, but the more Snow talks, the less she thinks. And keeping Snow's mind on the here and now prevents her from focusing on that which Emma can't seem to let go.

"Twenty-eight years and five months," Snow eventually murmurs. "Give or take a day or so."

Emma stops; the specificity surprises her to say the least.

Noticing a lack of footsteps behind her, Snow turns and sighs. "I was pregnant with you. Don't worry, I remember the way."

It still catches her off guard that Mary Margaret, her former roommate, can so casually refer to their newfound familial relationship when Emma herself is still processing the whole "daughter" of it all.

In the beginning (the beginning being practically all of five minutes ago), the fact that John Doe, who sparked Henry's fascination, and David Nolan, the source of Mary Margaret's heartbreak, was her father seemed to strain credulity. But now that she thinks about it (and trekking through the forest has given her plenty of time to ponder), it seems somewhat obvious if you casually ignore the fact that she's probably older than he is.

She has his sword.

She has his instinct.

She has his eyes.

She made a decision to push Regina out of the way and her father is paying the price to bring them back.

And finally she realizes that she can't keep her mother's mind off of him any more than Henry can stop carrying around his book of fairytales. The conclusion stops her in her tracks and causes a lump to lodge itself somewhere between her larynx and her lips.

That odd feeling that's been growing in her chest over the course of this journey is some strange mixture of guilt and trust and love and it's making it incredibly hard to breathe at the moment.

"Emma?" Snow cocks her head and studies her. Emma shrinks under her scrutiny.

"The room…" she clears her throat. "The burning room, is it… how hot is it?"

Understanding washes over Snow's face as she drops the bow in her hand and reaches forward to cup Emma's face. "Oh, sweetheart." She visibly swallows and yet Emma finds comfort in her mother's forced bravado. "Your father is going to be fine. He's… he's handled far worse and come out the better for it."

Knowing that her father has faced worse than a fiery purgatory shouldn't comfort her, but it does. With parents like hers, it's not surprising that she finds solace in the storm.

Yes, every decision has a consequence.

And Emma will ensure that the men she loves no longer have to suffer for it.


	3. The Homecoming

_The Homecoming_

"_Charming, how are you here? There's no way for you to be here unless…" _

"_I had to see you… It was worth it." _

"Grandma?"

Snow jumps as Henry's voice registers. The name should be foreign – she has yet to even master a response to "Mom" – but her gaze sharpens and she focuses on her grandson.

"Yes, Henry?"

"Did you hear the plan? We're making hot chocolate and then Gramps and I are gonna show you my new sword moves." The boy is practically vibrating with energy even as the burger that's too big for his tiny hands smears ketchup all over his cheeks.

"Kid, I think Grandma and your Mo – " Charming starts before Emma cuts him off.

"Sounds great, kid." Her nod is a little too enthusiastic and Snow's eyes narrow. "Enthusiastic" is not exactly the adjective one uses when describing Emma Swan; not even after two cups of coffee, let alone a harrowing experience in another world which has left both of them absolutely exhausted.

The look on Charming's face (always so easy to read) suggests that he thinks they should be going home and getting some much needed rest, but she's also learning that her husband would do just about anything for their grandson. So sword fighting it is.

More interesting, however, is the exact moment of Emma's interruption. Charming was about to refer to Emma as Henry's Mom, which she is. Though the situation is not exactly cut and dry, not by a long shot. Snow props her elbow on the table and rests her chin in her palm, studying her daughter.

They had made progress, yes, but they were nowhere near the idyllic picture of a family she had allowed her mind to dream of over the past few weeks. Though Snow is eager to make up for lost time, Emma is still grappling with the fact that her parents are back in her life. And that grappling is giving Snow a crash course in something that has never come easy to her: patience.

"Snow?" Charming whispers and his breath tickles her ear.

She puts on a tight smile and squeezes her husband's hand under the table. "I'm fine," and she is. With her husband's arms around her, she's better than she's been in a long time, but she feels her daughter's eyes on her, studying them. And she can't help but wonder if they'll live up to her expectations.

Without looking, Charming traces the lines on her palm, lines he's traced a thousand times before. They contain her hurt and her joy, her love and her heartbreak. The fists she's clenched through weddings and funerals and childbirth and lovemaking have created a tattoo on her skin only he can decipher.

"You're miles away," he whispers and she lets her head rest in that perfectly-shaped nook between his chin and shoulder.

"I'm right where I should be."

The answer seems to please him as she feels a kiss placed on the crown of her head. Her joints ache and her eyelids are fighting a losing battle to stay open, but her daughter is wiping ketchup off of her grandson's face and it's these little domestic moments that she's loathe to miss.

She stares, memorizing every detail. Every feature. Charming's eyes, her nose, his ears, her curls. Emma has taken a bit from each of them, and Snow wouldn't have it any other way. The product of true love, yes, but Emma owes her very existence to a different combination of sorcery and sacrifice.

"_What's it say it's gonna be, huh? It's gonna be a boy, right? I can never remember which direction means what." _

"_It's a surprise." _

"Gramps, let's go!" At some point during her musings, Henry managed to escape Emma's clutches only to latch onto Charming's arm and practically yank him from the booth. "Sword-fighting awaits!"

"All right, all right," Charming soothes even as he chuckles and holds out his hand for Snow to take.

"In a minute," she says as she takes his palm and places a kiss in the middle.

He does that adorable half smile that's probably become her favorite of all his smiles and nods, turning to follow their grandson.

"You were looking at me like I was about to disappear," comes Emma's voice and Snow immediately knows she's been caught.

"What?"

"A minute ago. You were staring." Emma narrows her eyes, which Snow has come to learn means she's about to use her "superpower" on her.

"I'm just happy you're here."

"Of course I'm here."

"Well you almost weren't."

And all it takes is one look from her daughter, a single raised eyebrow, to get Snow to spill the story she fully intended to take to her grave. She tells her of the poisoned drink, which briefly turns into a lecture on not to consume unknown substances, before Emma informs her she's gotten completely sidetracked. She tells of Lake Nostros, which Emma now knows well, and most importantly, of Ruth – her paternal grandmother – who gave her life so Emma could have her own.

"She really did that?"

"Ruth was a wonderful woman. I only knew her briefly, but… she must have been. She made him," Snow murmurs, nodding at Charming.

"Does he know?" The question is quiet. Hesitant. As if the answer might be more than either can bear.

Snow continues to stare at her husband as he places a large hand on Henry's head and ruffles his hair.

"No. He doesn't."

xxxxx

Emma should be asleep. Her body _wants _her to be asleep, but her mind apparently has other plans, since it can't seem to settle on anything resembling "quiet."

Still. She's better off than other members of her family.

Snow is presumably passed out upstairs, but when Emma came out to make some tea, she found David – _Charming _– sprawled out on the sofa. She knows he's been subject to the sleeping curse, and if his nightmares are anything like what Snow alluded to, then he probably wants to spare as many as he can from his experiences in that hell. Whatever magic necklace Gold had given them is currently around Henry's neck (Charming wouldn't hear of any other arrangement), and the boy is sleeping peacefully on the other half of her bed.

So she bustles about the kitchen with as much energy as her battered body can muster, ready to pounce on the kettle the moment before it starts whistling in an effort to keep from waking her already restless father. She glances over the back of the couch and observes as he tosses one way before moving back the other. Sweat beads on his forehead and she wants to wake him, but fears she would only do more harm that good.

The kettle begins its cry and she quickly turns the knob, snubbing the fire beneath it, but her efforts are in vain. Charming bolts upright, a white-knuckled grip on the back of the sofa and the other reaching for a sword that is nowhere to be found.

"Hey," Emma soothes before she even acknowledges the words coming out of her mouth. "You're okay."

Tea ignored, she comes around the sofa and debates for a moment about where to sit. Though he's panting and sweating and looking around wildly, the first words out of his mouth when his eyes find hers are, "Did I wake them up?"

And Emma can't help but feel a surge of affection for the man who cares more for the uninterrupted sleep of his wife and grandson than he does for his current state.

"No," she sinks to the couch beside him without another thought. "No, they're fine."

He nods and runs a shaky hand through his hair. "Good, that's… that's good." Inhale. Exhale.

And it comes as second nature, a natural instinct, to reach for the candle on the end table and strike the match Mary Margaret always left at its base. But for as "right" as it feels, she has to work hard to ignore the stunned look David (_Charming_) is giving her as she blows the match out and watches the flame cast shadows on the far wall.

"I overheard a story once, about a prince who would light a candle for his princess after she had nightmares. The flame would… catch the bad dreams or… or something," she finishes lamely, because it's hard for her to keep her concentration when he's staring at her like that.

"Caught them and kept them away," he finally whispers when he's found his voice.

It takes Emma a full minute before she's able to raise her eyes, but even then, she can't quite meet his gaze. She settles on examining the scar running along the right side of his chin as she picks at a loose thread on the blanket. She and David haven't had a moment like this, yet. A "Yes I am your father, I love you, I'm sorry we left you" heart-to-heart, and its sudden arrival is putting her on the verge of downright panic.

"I'm glad for the curse," she blurts. "If the curse kept you from dying the day you put me in the wardrobe, then I'm glad for it."

He sucks in a breath and it's that small sound that makes her truly realize what she's just said. Before she can even give him a chance to reply, she's up and gone as if scalded, fleeing behind a sheer curtain and cursing her cowardice for not looking her father in the eye.

xxxxx

Henry's eyes open slowly and he blinks once, twice, before the room comes into focus. He's in what is now his mom's bedroom, formerly his grandmother's room, which his grandfather let him commandeer because he liked the curtains.

He can hear the sound of sizzling bacon, whose smell mixes harshly the stench of something burning. There's a scuffle and some whispered admonishments, of which he only make out a few words at a time.

"_Charming."_

"_Cooking was never my forte." _

"_Clearly." _

The back and forth makes him giggle and he kicks the covers off and pads barefoot into the kitchen to find his grandmother waving an oven mitt over a smoking pan as his Gramps stands there sheepishly holding a charred spatula.

"Whatcha makin'?" he asks as he hops on a stool.

"Pancakes," Gramps replies at the same time Grandma says, "Coal."

"How'd you sleep?" Gramps asks, deflecting attention from what used to be breakfast as he points to the necklace still around Henry's neck.

"Great," Henry replies as he pulls it off. "How'd _you _sleep?"

Gramps smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Perfectly."

He's lying and Henry knows it. But Henry also knows he's lying to protect him, so he plasters a smile on his face and says, "Good," even though he feels a little sick. "Where's Emma?"

"Ran to the store. We were out of orange juice."

He wants to run after her, because she'll tell him details about Fairytale Land that his grandmother will leave out in an effort to protect him and that is just not acceptable. So he pulls some shoes on and throws a jacket over his pajamas as quickly as he can.

"I'll catch up with her. See if she needs any help."

"With a carton of orange juice?" Gramps asks suspiciously.

Henry shrugs. "You never know. Maybe she's really thirsty."

And with that, he's out the door and running down the stairs, heading for the wharf and the little deli that carries Emma's organic OJ.

He's happy. Things are good. Things are _really _good. The curse is broken. His entire family is in one dimension and they all know who they are. He's heir to a kingdom, dilapidated though it may be, and there's a horse a few blocks away who might even let Henry ride him soon.

Yes, things are very good.

_Oof. _

"Watch it, mate," comes an accented voice somewhere above him. Always keep an eye on that horizon."

Henry cranes his neck up and is temporarily blinded by the sun as he stares into bright eyes rimmed with kohl.

"And where are you off to in such a hurry in nothing but your sleepwear?"

A slow smile creeps over Henry's face and he takes a step back to get a better look. "I know who _you_ are."

The man looks at him curiously for a moment before he raises an eyebrow and smirks. "You have her eyes. Henry, I presume?"

Henry smiles proudly and holds out his hand. "Captain."

Hook raises his left arm, the steel on its end catching the morning sun, as he wryly replies, "What gave me away?"

But before Henry can answer, someone else is appearing behind him, a woman with red lips and sharp features that seem somehow familiar.

"And who are you? You can't be Smee." Henry laughs at his own joke, but his smile soon dies.

It should frighten him when the woman leans down, places her perfectly manicured nails in a vise grip on his shoulder and whispers sweetly in his ear:

"An old family friend."

It should frighten him, but it doesn't. Because it's the last thing he remembers before it all goes dark.


	4. The Confrontation

_The Confrontation_

"Henry?"

Charming jogs down Main St. towards the wharf, slightly concerned that he hasn't caught up with the boy yet. The market is perhaps a ten-minute walk. Fifteen if he's strolling, but he's been steadily picking up the pace the longer he's gone without meeting his grandson.

"Hey, Grumpy, have you seen the kid?" he calls as he passes the dwarf driving slowly by.

"Nope," comes the reply and Charming's stomach drops. He knows what it is to worry. He's had the cares of a farm, a mother, a wife, a child, and a kingdom on his shoulders. When he woke from the curse (the first curse, not the second) the rush of love that came with the realization that he finally had his wife, daughter, _and _grandson was overwhelming.

Almost as overwhelming as the panic that came with it.

And that panic, that need to _protectfindhold,_ is causing his heart to hammer against his ribcage as his eyes scan the streets for his wayward grandson.

_Oof. _

"Hey watch it," Emma says as she rubs the spot on her forehead that had collided with his chin.

"Sorry," he grins. "You all right?"

"I'll live. Where's the fire?" Emma tilts her head and studies him as she holds the carton of orange juice close to her chest.

"I was looking for Henry. He came out to help you," he explains, even as he takes stock that Henry is nowhere to be found.

His daughter is on immediate alert, eyes sharp and shoulders tense, and that sends him instinctively into protective mode.

"I'm sure he's fine. You know him; he's probably chatting Jiminy's ear off about something or other."

Her eyebrow arches in a perfect imitation of Snow, but she seems to take his words to heart, though skepticism still clouds her face. "How long ago did he leave?"

"Less than ten minutes after you did. He – he should…" the _be here _remains unspoken yet hangs heavy in the air. Charming continues to scan the streets, frustration rising in his chest, before his eyes catch on something on the horizon. "That schooner…" he says as he spots the mast towering the small fishing vessels in the marina. "That wasn't here before."

Emma follows his gaze and, if the way her face pales is any indication, she has a sneaking suspicion who the boat belongs to. "That looks awfully like a pirate ship."

He smirks. "Know a few pirates, do you?" He means it in jest, but her response wipes the humor clear off his face.

"Not a few. Just one."

And with that, she drops the carton of orange juice and takes off towards the marina, leaving her father no choice but to follow.

xxxxx

If Snow eats one more piece of bacon, there will be none left for the rest of her family. The family which, she notices as she glances at the clock for the tenth time in as many minutes, is taking a remarkably long while for just a carton of orange juice.

She folds the dishtowel she'd been using to clear the smoke from the kitchen, unfolds it, and folds it again. There really shouldn't be any concern – she had shooed Charming out of the apartment shortly after Henry had dashed off to meet Emma, but still. She has what her husband lovingly likes to a call a sixth sense and, at the moment, it seems to be waving a rather bright red flag.

Something doesn't feel quite right. In fact, something feels downright wrong.

"Charming, come home," she whispers to the air as she pops another bite of bacon in her mouth.

At the rate she's going, she'll pace a hole right through to the apartment below them, and Mr. Fleming really won't appreciate that.

But her family is capable; more than capable, really. Her daughter is a sheriff and her husband is a prince. They both know how to use their weapons with an efficiency that generates a healthy amount of respect from those they come up against, but her daughter is her _daughter. _There should _be _no weapons at all. There should have been wooden swords and dolls and dresses and crystal mobiles.

Not guns and foster homes and distrust and loneliness.

The pacing starts again, but the worry has taken a backseat to the immense guilt she's been battling just as fiercely as the corporeal foes she encountered in the forest.

_Charming, come home._

No child should have to grow up like that. Especially a child half hers and half his.

xxxxx

"Emma – Em, hold up a minute."

It's the nickname more than anything else that draws her up short. David is panting slightly as he jogs up next to her and she supposes that lying prone for over almost 48 hours would have an effect on one's physical capabilities, but it's the first crack in his armor she's seen and she's not entirely sure she likes it. He's supposed to be invincible. Impenetrable. _Prince Charming_, dammit. But right now he's just a man with worry etched across his features even as he eyes her somewhat self-consciously, as if aware that "Em" has never left his lips before.

"Look, I know you're the sheriff and all – "

"And he's my kid," she snaps.

"And you're _mine_," he retorts.

Whatever indignant response she had been about to throw back gets stuck in the utter _blank_ those three words make of her mind.

Silence. Total and complete silence, that David supposedly feels the need to fill.

"I'm sorry, I know we were supposed to have time to – to get acquainted," he rambles. "But you're still my daughter. And I know my track record over the past 28 years hasn't exactly been stellar, but I'm not about to let you go barreling into a dangerous situation." He's paled several shades over the past minute, but his voice is steady when he finally says, "That's not what fathers do."

Well. Try as she might, Emma doesn't have one snarky comeback for that. Instead, she merely nods as she fixes a glazed gaze studiously on the ground.

"We do this together, yes?"

"Yes," she whispers. She doesn't feel like a scorned child because his good intentions are practically beaming out of his pores, so she finally manages a smile for him and nods in confirmation, even as "daughter," "father," and "mine" echo rather loudly in both her head and her heart. "Together."

"Together," he repeats and she likes the sound of that.

xxxxx

For a moment, Henry is pretty sure he's still asleep. Or drugged. Or knocked out. Either way, he definitely doesn't think he's awake.

That changes when he purposely blinks and still sees nothing but black. He's not blindfolded; he feels no fabric on his face. So he's either in a room with no windows, or his sight has been cursed away from him.

The rest of his senses are working on full tilt: ears straining to hear the slightest sound, nose scrunching against the moldy smell, tongue tangy against the copper taste of blood, joints sore and wrists chafed from the rope keeping his arms and legs in place.

Henry sighs as he rests his head on what definitely feels like stone. He should have listened to his grandparents, but he's not too worried. They'll come for him.

A distant door creaks and a muffled moan escapes.

Well, Henry thinks. Maybe a little worried.

xxxxx

The marina is deserted when Emma and David make their way down the dock. The wooden structure dead ends flush against the hull of the massive schooner tied to the pilings. Anger bubbles higher and higher with every step Emma takes closer to it.

She sees movement on the deck and her pace quickens. David's footsteps keep time with hers and something tightens in her chest. It's the knowledge that she's not alone and it's utterly overwhelming.

"Where is he?" Emma demands as she walks up the gangway to find Hook lounging lazily against the mast, his boots propped up on a crate.

"Hello, love," he drawls. "I missed you too."

"I'm not joking." She kicks the crate out from under him and he goes crashing to the deck in a rather undignified heap.

She'll have to thank David for his forethought as he reaches down and snatches Hook's sword up. The pirate raises his hands (one flesh, one not) and smirks.

"I surrender."

But Emma's patience is running thin and it's all she can do not to deck him across the face. Again.

"Where. Is. My. Son."

"I. Do. Not. Know," he repeats, that infuriating smirk still gracing his entirely too handsome face. "Despite what you may think, kidnapping children is not how I get my kicks."

"I know a couple of lost boys who would disagree," she replies.

He tilts his head and frowns. "What's a lost boy?"

_Crap._ "Nevermind," she mutters as she regroups and moves unconsciously towards David. "Where is Henry?"

Hook takes a step forward. "I told you, I don't – " but he doesn't finished his sentence because he suddenly has a sword pressing none-too-softly against his jugular.

"Go near her again, Hook, and I will give you one to match," David says, tapping the broad side of his sword against Hook's right hand.

The pirate glances at Emma, eyebrow arched. "Boyfriend?"

"Father," she replies, with a hint of pride in her voice.

"Where is my grandson?" David presses the sword close enough to draw blood and Hook grunts.

"He's not lying," comes a voice that freezes Emma's blood. "He doesn't know where the boy is."

Emma turns slowly, because the longer she takes to lay eyes on the woman she knows is behind her, the longer she can lie to herself that this is all just a really bad dream.

But it's her father who speaks first, breaking the spell that had glued Emma's feet to the boat deck. "Cora."

"Charming, I presume?" Cora's eyes narrow hungrily at David. "I've heard so much about you," she purrs and Emma takes a step closer to her father, swallowing hard.

If Cora's going to strike, she's taking them both. It's all or nothing because Emma will not live in a world where her father does not exist again. She feels David's hand press against the small of her back and she knows, perhaps for the first time in her life, that they're in this together.

"Together," she whispers as Cora raises her hands.

"Together," he replies, as he tugs her close to his body.

It's the last thing she remembers before it all goes dark.


End file.
